They stepped through together.
And the realm behind them closed—silent, scarred, and still watching.
The moment their feet touched solid ground, the sound hit them—steel clashing, magic screaming, voices shouting through smoke.
They were back. Not in peace. Not in safety.
In war.
Raven blinked against the blinding sunlight as his boots met bloodied soil. The skies above were fractured with spell-light, and the once-sacred fields between the witch and vampire lands had become battlegrounds. The air stank of ash and burning roots.
Lyra swayed beside him, gripping his arm to steady herself. Her magic flickered at her fingertips, still echoing with the realm's raw energy.
But here, now, that power had to bend to a new purpose.
A witch spotted them first—eyes wide, torn cloak fluttering behind her. "Raven!" she gasped, her voice half disbelieving. "You made it."
He gave a tight nod. "Barely."
In the distance, vampire forces were clashing with twisted beasts that didn't belong to any known realm. Not human. Not vampire. Not witch. Something else. Something corrupted.
Lyra's gaze followed the chaos. "What happened while we were gone?"
The witch hesitated. "The lines broke. Something... something's poisoning the battle. Our spells turned on us. The shadows fight like they know us."
Raven's jaw tensed. He exchanged a glance with Lyra, the truth dawning silently between them. The veil hadn't just taken them—it had studied them.
And now... something out there had learned too much.
"We fight," Raven said, unsheathing his blade. "We finish what we started."
They pushed forward—together.
The battlefield surged around them like a living thing—witches casting layered spells, vampires striking fast and brutal, the sky ablaze with chaotic magic that twisted mid-air. The enemy—beasts wrought of shadow and bone—moved unnaturally, like marionettes pulled by a hand no one could see.
Raven didn't hesitate. He launched into the fray, blade slicing through darkness as if answering a call it had always known. Beside him, Lyra's magic flared alive—ice and fire spiraling from her fingers, weaving barriers that shimmered and exploded on contact.
Their arrival shifted the tide. Vampires who had been pushed back rallied at the sight of Raven. Witches steadied their hands as Lyra joined the circle of spells, reinforcing broken wards and redirecting collapsing enchantments. Their bond, once tested beyond realms, now burned like a beacon in the heart of battle.
One creature, massive and stinking of rot, lunged for a fallen soldier. Raven moved with a blur, intercepting with his blade while Lyra sent a spear of molten ice through its spine. It screamed—then scattered like ash.
The ground quaked again. This time, not from spellfire… but from something older.
For a moment, everything stilled. The enemy faltered—as if confused. Their movements staggered, heads twitching like they were listening to something no one else could hear. Then, with no warning, they shrieked and lunged again—wild, desperate, frenzied.
A scream cut through the fray—a young witch thrown backward, her spell collapsing mid-cast.
"What are they…?" someone gasped.
There was no answer. Only a rising sense that the enemy wasn't just attacking—but reacting. Like something behind the veil of this fight pulled invisible strings. Something they couldn't name, couldn't see. They could feel it in their bones, like cold breath down the spine. But no one could place it.
Lyra didn't wait for clarity. Her hands lit the sky, magic spiraling into the heavens, then crashing down in arcs of flame and frost. Raven moved through the carnage like a living blade, slashing and striking with deadly precision. Together, they fought—not just as warriors, but as one.
And slowly… slowly… the tide turned.
The creatures faltered. Their assault began to crack. Not from fear. Not from fatigue. But as if the very realm that had spat them out decided, arbitrarily, to let them lose.
Victory didn't feel like triumph. It felt… permitted.
The battlefield stilled.
Smoke curled over cracked stone and blood-soaked earth. Witches sagged with exhaustion, vampires licking wounds, the silence broken only by the ragged breaths of those who remained standing.
But far beyond the edge of light and sound...
In the shadows where time does not tread,
He watched.
Eyes like extinguished stars.
Smile carved from silence.
No crown. No throne.
And yet the air bent to his will.
The Forgotten King.
He stood untouched by blood or fire,
A phantom sovereign with no need for sword or spell.
And as the dust of their false victory settled,
He turned away—slowly, knowingly—
As though the ending had only been a beginning
He allowed.